Those who broke the boy: The Sons of Charlemagne Book One

by Richard Hathway

  The narrative ran in my head all the way up Grove Road and was not concluded when I silenced it as we got to the corner of Grove Avenue. I stopped and put my arm out across Sally to stop her too.

  “He’s already here.” I said.

  “How do you know?” asked Sally.

  “I’ve never seen that car before.” I said pointing up the road towards the house where the girl had been killed.

  “Well just because you’ve never seen it before, doesn’t mean it belongs to our man, maybe you’ve just not noticed it before.” replied Sally.

  “That’s a Mercedes 280 SL convertible,” I said, “no-one round here has one of them, believe me I would remember seeing that car. It’s parked outside the house as well. If it belonged to the man who lives there he’d park it on the driveway wouldn’t he? If it belongs to someone visiting anyone else in the road they’d park outside their house wouldn’t they, or on their drive?”

  Sally nodded and raised her eyebrows in recognition.

  “Good point Hun. O.K so he’s already here, that doesn’t change our plan does it?”

  “No. Except it would have been better to be there first, get the advantage.” I said.

  “This thing is gonna happen how it happens Hun. If this guy is part of an international criminal conspiracy he’s got all the advantage he needs, getting here earlier ain’t gonna change that.”

  Sally was right of course but I couldn’t help feeling a little less sure of myself. Up until now I, we, had been under the protection of anonymity. Suddenly we were about to walk into a house that only one of us had ever been in, and that was only once in the dark, and confront a man we had no knowledge of. The suicidal nature of our plan was laid bare before us, glinting off the chrome bumper of that beautiful dark green sports car. My resolve began to falter and had it not been for my demon I may have walked away there and then. I found I was unable to think straight, I couldn’t move and my mouth was opening and closing like a fish. Fear had gripped me fully and I saw us from outside my body, saw how we looked to the world. A weak, weird looking twelve-year old boy and a librarian standing on a corner in Combe Dingle hoping to change the world. Hoping to bring down a criminal empire with some pages from history and the occasional dark thought. It was pathetic.

  Then he spoke. This is what he said.

  “The Sons of Charlemagne are strong. We are nothing but weak children and women. And that is how they will see us. And that is why they will fail to stop us, because they will assume they don’t need to. We still have the advantage, because we own the darkness. Look to the house, look to his car. He cares for material things, he cares about living. Use the darkness to strengthen your resolve and be cloaked in this truth: This world holds no hope for us, we are already dead, all we do today is speed our descent into hell.”

  I was beginning to see the merit of letting him out. He was so much stronger than me. I took his counsel and as his words calmed me I began to move again. If I could get myself to the house I could let him take over completely. I couldn’t risk letting him out just yet, I didn’t trust him not to decide on another course of destruction. I looked to Sally, she nodded and we walked on. The minute it took us to get to the house was agony. I could feel my demon growing within me, pushing all that was me against my skin and, like an overfilled sausage, I felt I was about to burst.

  We got to the house and without stopping Sally and I turned into the driveway and made for the front door. It was standing slightly ajar and, again without hesitation, we entered into the hallway. We were so emboldened with the hubris of the hero complex we took no precautions. We were so fixated on getting the job done we didn’t think we could fail. We didn’t see the man waiting in the office to the left. We didn’t see him stride out behind us as we moved forward towards the kitchen. We didn’t hear his soft footsteps getting closer. We didn’t hear him raise the cricket bat.

  Sally felt it first and as she cried out and fell to the floor I managed a half turn back towards the door before I was hit. I fell next to Sally in the hallway. She was clutching the back of her head but not moving. I couldn’t see if she was dead through the blood running down my face. I had been hit across my left eye and temple and as my vision faded and searing pain took my consciousness I heard that bland, English voice.

  “Too easy.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I woke up in stages. As I regained consciousness my body jerked back to life only to find itself constrained. I had been tied to a chair and my head was hanging forward. I tried sluggishly to raise it but the pain made it heavy and unresponsive. The pounding in my head left me dizzy and uncoordinated so in my hazy state I flopped about in the chair like a large trout on the deck of a boat. I managed to get my head upright and though I felt like I was going to violently vomit I kept it there. I opened my right eye, the left was glued shut with blood and bruise, and the world began to spin in blurry shapes around me. I shut my eye again and let my head fall backward trying to stop the feeling of being on the world’s fastest Waltzer ride. A moment later a hand pushed my head forward again and I felt the immediate and startling splash of cold water on my face. I opened my eye again and through the shifting rapids of my vision I saw the man from the office standing to the right of me. He was holding my head with one hand and had an empty jug in the other. He said nothing but let my head go and walked away behind me. I started to turn my head to see him but the pain from the cricket bat was still in charge so I had to keep my head still to maintain clear vision. I saw that I was in the kitchen of the house. I recognised it from my breaking and entering. The ill-fitting stable door was behind me and I could see out into the hallway from my position. The wooden flooring of the kitchen looked better in daylight, oak I thought, very expensive. The green of the walls brought a coolness that complimented the cream units. I noticed a fireplace on the left-hand wall that I hadn’t spotted the first time. It was closed over and served nothing more than a decorative purpose now, a large yellow glass vase filled with plastic flowers sitting on the hearth. As I became more accustomed to the dull thumping in my head I was able to turn my head to see everything. There was blood on the flagstones in the hallway, I was tied to a chair brought in from the dining room, the man was whistling and there was a breeze gently arriving through the open stable door. Sally was next to me, tied to another dining chair. She was still not moving but I assumed that her being tied up meant that at least she was still alive. Our legs were tied to the front legs of the chairs and our hands were pulled back behind the upright and secured together and to the back legs. I saw two pairs of legs poking out from around the central island. The familiar corduroy trousers of the man and the slender legs of the wife lay across each other in an undignified pile. One of the wife’s knees had been twisted backwards so her lower leg stuck up in the air like a fleshy flagpole, her shoe dangling from the foot like a tattered flag on a winter promenade. For all the things I saw though it was what was absent that frightened me most. There was no sound from my demon. My mind, foggy and tossed about like a soft toy in a tumble dryer, was silent. I tried to establish communication but there was no reply. I closed my eye and frowned in concentration. I tried to reassign my physical strength to the task of focussing my thoughts. If I could create a converging lens in my mind I could push all of my energy through it onto a focal point. A single, powerful signal pin pointed and accurate. I tried but the pain in my eye and temple was too much for me to ignore. I managed a weak signal but it didn’t penetrate deeply enough into my subconscious. There was no reply. I was on my own. In this final reckoning with the Sons of Charlemagne I was deserted. I thought of the girl. I thought about how I had been on this path since I saw her. I hated myself for getting Sally mixed up in it all. I longed for my demon and his strength to appear and take control of me. More than that though I just longed for answers.

  “Why did he kill her?” I managed croakily.

  The man turned and smiled. He put down the bloody knife and walked around to b
e in front of me. He pulled a breakfast stool behind him, scratching grooves in the expensive oak floor as he dragged it into position a few feet in front of me. He perched himself on the stool and looked down at me like a cat wondering whether to play with the mouse or just kill it.

  “I am curious about you and your friend. Normally I would just clean up but you’re very young, something about killing you doesn’t seem very sporting. So, tell me, what is your name?”

  “Why did he kill her?” I repeated. He tutted at me.

  “No, no, young man I will ask the questions. What is your name and why are you here?” his tone hardened as he delivered his questions again. I considered that as I was tied to a chair and there was no help coming I might as well answer him. He might open up and tell me about the girl before he killed me if I was honest with him. A tiny part of my terrified mind was also wondering if the blow to the head from the cricket bat had killed my demon.

  “I’ll tell you but you have to let Sally go.” I said as defiantly as I could manage. He considered me again, the cat curiously observing the mouse that was trying to roar.

  “That’s perfect my friend,” came the voice low in my mind, “keep the cat curious. Curiosity kills the cat.” My demon’s voice was somehow distant like he had fallen down the back of my mind and was trying to clamber back up the cliff face. I felt my body tingle with electricity at the sound of him. I tried not to show my joy to the man in front of me. He was still staring at me, trying to read me. Finally, he smiled and gave a little laugh to himself.

  “Young man, you are in no position to bargain for anyone’s life. Your friend will die, as will you, the only power you have is to decide how painful that death is. If you tell me what I want to know I will make it quick. If not, I will take my time. You have caused me a certain amount of frustration and inconvenience so if I’m honest, I’m half hoping you choose the later. So, in your own time.” He sat back on the stool and regarded me with the coolness of an arrogant teacher who assumed the pupil in front of him wasn’t all that bright. I took a moment to compose my thoughts. My demon agreed that I should tell him everything, try to trap him in curiosity while we looked for an advantage.

  “My name is Ian Harper. I live around the corner in Arbutus Drive. A few months ago, I saw a black girl killed in this house. I was walking home and she banged on the window and shouted, ‘The Sons of Charlemagne!’. Then she was dragged back from the window and a minute later a man came out onto the driveway with secateurs dripping with blood. That man.” I gestured with my head towards the legs behind the island. “I hid behind the hedge out there so he didn’t see me. If he’d come down the driveway he would have done but he didn’t. I called the police but they found nothing, thought it was a hoax. I broke in here and found a business card with your crest and address and phone number on it and a number on the back. I figured out she was a slave and went to the central library to find out more. I met Sally there and she helped me research the Sons of Charlemagne and slavery. We found all sorts of stuff going back centuries, stuff about the White ship, Elmina Castle, East India company, World War two, loads of stuff. We figured out that you’re an international criminal gang that’s been going forever. We know that you brought the slave girl here so we phoned you to meet you and get answers.”

  “And revenge?” The man asked.

  “And revenge.” I answered quietly. My demon crept forward and whispered in my ear.

  “Now remain silent,” he said, “let him speak. They always speak. They always tell you the whole story before they kill you, they can’t help themselves.”

  The man stood and paced a circle around the kitchen as he considered his next move. Every time he turned from me I tried to loosen my bindings. Every time he got to the stable door he turned back and casually stepped over the bodies on the floor. Sally began to stir in her chair and this seemed to galvanise the man’s thoughts. He gave Sally the same water treatment he had given me and after a few minutes she was awake enough to speak. She took a brief look around and then looked at me.

  “Looks like we got him right where we want him.” she said coolly with a little smile of resignation.

  “Yeah, something like that.” I managed back.

  The man sat down again on the breakfast stool. He allowed himself a little snort of derision as he regarded us both briefly before he spoke.

  “Well what a sorry couple you are. A child and a Yank. Pathetic. Although I must congratulate you on your little investigation. It’s not often that someone puts any of the pieces together so well done, not that it will do you any good of course.”

  He looked to the bodies on the floor and then back to us. He checked his watch and, having considered that he had time, he lent forward slightly and began to speak.

  “The Sons of Charlemagne have existed for a thousand years. Charlemagne’s daughter Rotrude, growing tired of her lack of power or influence at court, embarked on many affairs. One such affair, with Rorgo of Rennes, produced a bastard son, Louis.”

  “So, it wasn’t an actual son of Charlemagne at all?” I asked. He looked at me with the scorn of someone who wasn’t used to being interrupted.

  “The Sons of Charlemagne is not about a mere lineage of blood young man, it is the lineage of ideas. Charlemagne sought to unite the world as he saw it under his rule. The Sons have realised his dream. You see while Charlemagne’s legitimate heirs were squabbling for thrones and crowns and titles, Louis was getting an education in real power. He was sent to the Abbey of Saint-Pierre of Ferireres where he saw that power on earth is nothing without divine blessing. He became abbot and then archchancellor for two Carolingian kings, Louis the Pious and Charles the Bald. Those two direct Sons of Charlemagne may have worn the crown but it was Louis who held the power. He controlled the church, which controlled the people. He had influence in every facet of life in the kingdom. When he was captured by Vikings however he realised that was not enough. The payment of a large ransom to free him gave him his final lesson. Information is power but sometimes only money talks. From then on, he set about building his empire. He moved from influence to total control, bought mercenaries to enforce his will, spies to gather his intelligence, and so the Sons of Charlemagne were born. A vast invisible entity that controlled the world as it was. Louis was smart enough not to try to change the nature of the world, just to steer it. So, the world continues as it always has, wars and famines, murder and miraculous escapes, wonderful art, political upheaval and so on. The Sons of Charlemagne shape it all, profit from it all, and the people go on believing that life is random.

  From those humble beginnings The Sons of Charlemagne grew and spread across the world. We are presidents, prime ministers, dictators and popes, Jews and Muslims, great artists and those who decry them. We are the World Cup and Formula One. The Sons of Charlemagne are communist and capitalist, Tory and Labour, city and united. We bring you Coke to drink while you watch our wars on the television we gave you. Human innovation, left unchecked, leads to destruction. We are not an altruistic species. We need to be steered towards acts of good by the horror of acts of evil. We create the morality that the media feeds you, we tell you what to be outraged by and when. Philanthropy and progress is the side of the moon you all marvel at. What it takes to create it is the dark side that you never see.

  We create the wars, make the weapons, build the ships and fighter jets. We camp outside RAF bases with banners, we were the crew of the Rainbow Warrior and the agents that sank her.

  We’re not the bad guys or the good guys. We’re all the guys. We are both sides of the coin and the royal mint.

  And me? I am just a tiny cog in the mighty machine. I hold no power and have no influence, so I’m afraid you are not about to cut the head from the snake. My position is merely an evolutionary redundancy. My great, great, great, great, great grandfather was Edward Colston. Naturally a man who made his money from ivory, gold, sugar and slaves was a Son of Charlemagne like his father before him. Through his philanthropy t
o this great city he gained a huge amount of influence and power. He gave to schools and churches and hospitals, even set up the Merchant Venturers who still to this day are one of the biggest charitable societies in the region. He was a master of steering the people to see what he wanted them to. Over time of course Bristol lost its status as a port city and people developed the conscience that they were told to. Our family name was faded from public view and our operations moved into the shadows. We still retain some influence, though sadly not as much as Edward did. I run the drugs, the prostitution and the slaves in the south west for The Sons. It’s not as box office as some other departments so I don’t have the access to help that I’d like. Your girl, well his girl I suppose,” he gestured towards the body of the man on the floor, “was simply a mistake, an error of judgement on my part.”

  “Fuck you!” I screamed without thinking. “She was not a mistake!” I tried to stand, to rush at him and kill him but I was still tightly tied to the chair and couldn’t quite coordinate myself to movement. I sat struggling pathetically against my bindings.

  “Now now, calm down.” he said quietly and dispassionately. “You don’t want to go hurting yourself, do you?”

  “What do you mean a mistake?” asked Sally.

  “You see?” he said looking at me and gesturing towards Sally. “Our American friend here has the right idea. Time is short lad, best to ask the right questions.”

  He turned to Sally.

  “A mistake, yes. After the St. Pauls riots a few years back I decided to move our office from Brunswick Square. We’d had the building forever but since we’d moved a lot of prostitution and drugs into the area it had become a little unseemly. My own fault of course but a change of address was needed nevertheless. I decided to move the office to Clifton, nearer to home you see, and I found a lovely council owned place on Blackboy Hill. The whole operation hit a bit of a snag when the council wanted lots of details about the company hoping to buy the property. Of course I let our people on the council know but the whole thing was under the control of this chap here.” Again, he gestured in the direction of the dead man on the floor.